


eyeliner and cigarettes.

by feralsandgoblin



Category: Modern AU - Fandom, Reylo - Fandom, Reylo AU - Fandom, Star Wars - All Media Types, reylo modern au - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ben Solo - Freeform, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Kylo Ren - Freeform, Miscommunication, Modern AU, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pop Punk AU, Punk AU, Rey Skywalker, Rey from Nowhere, Reylo - Freeform, Rockstar AU, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Tension, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unresolved Sexual Tension, giving the girls what they need, lady gaga inspired this fic, rey is in charge, you can tell trust me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23138215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralsandgoblin/pseuds/feralsandgoblin
Summary: when ben solo's boss finally sends something down the pipeline, something juicy, something about getting into the head of lead singer of the rapidly rising pop-punk band "the nobodies" rey johnson in her first ever interview -- he couldn't resist. there's only one problem: she's notorious for not trusting the press. will ben blow his big shot? will rey finally open up?
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Reylo
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	eyeliner and cigarettes.

“Solo. The boss wants you.” The head of hair, greasy, black, not nearly as professional as it should be considering his job, rises. His job, his job, his _fucking _job – Ben Solo hates his fucking job. Everything about it. He hates his desk, how the small gray walls of the cubicle shut out the outside world, how his legs are too long to sit comfortably. He hates the coffee, how it’s always too sweet or vaguely burnt, he hates his writing. He hasn’t liked it in years, quite frankly, not since Snoke took a vicious red pen to his commas, cut his semicolons in half, and ripped right through his killer wit with the claws of a lion.__

____

____

So, it’s no surprise that he groans audibly as his head rises from the desk, when Hux peeks his red hair over Ben’s gray divider to extend the invitation to Snoke’s office.

“What does he want?”

“Fuck if I know. All I know is he slammed the phone down, rustled some papers, and then told me to get you.” Armitage Hux is Snoke’s right hand man, his beloved assistant. He had originally gotten the gig because every other candidate started crying when Snoke hit his midday caffeine crash and came looking for blood. But Hux never crumbled under that kind of pressure, if anything he thrived under it. If he wasn’t such a kiss-ass, he and Ben might’ve been friends.

Ben picks himself up, clothes crumpled under the weight of him lying against his desk, watching the minutes dissolve away, and makes the short trip to Snoke’s office. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good.

* * *

A gentle rap of knuckles against his door, he has no idea why he did that, the door is glass for fucks sake, before he speaks – “You called, sir?”

Snoke was a small man, but you’d never be able to tell if you had only heard him over the phone. He was almost half Ben’s size, bald head, sharp features, always wearing a crisp suit, always disappointed with whatever Ben brought him. Ben couldn’t figure out how he’d kept the job, not with Snoke always looking at him with such disdain, but he figures that luck’s on his side. Or Snoke had too many things on his plate to find the time to fire him. Either works.

“Yes, yes – come in, Ben.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, pointing to the chair in front of him. Ben settles, his too big frame sinking into the seat, and sinking further still at the man in front of him. He could make a child out of Ben, Snoke could, and Snoke knew it.

“I have a story for you.” He opens a file, a glossy magazine – not theirs, bad sign – and Ben is taken aback, albeit internally, by the photo of the woman on the cover. Big hair, teased so far that he’s sure the photo had to be cropped to fit, huge Rolling Stones t-shirt down to her knees, fishnets, black boots. But her face is what did him in, what did him in so fatally that he was sure Snoke could smell it on him. Her big eyes. Her lips. Her _lips _.__

____

____

“Rey Johnson,” Snoke begins, tapping her photo twice before leaning back, “lead singer of The Nobodies. I’m sure you’re familiar,” he asks, and Ben nods, a harmless lie, “good. Well I’m sure you’ll know, then, that she isn’t a fan of press. Doesn’t trust them, and I can’t possibly imagine why.”

“We’ve always been such a friendly group,” Ben quips before watching Snoke wince slightly at his remark. _Overfamiliar _, he notes, _got it.___

_____ _

____

“Anyway,” Snoke presses on, “I want The First Order to be her first interview. She has something, I can smell it on her, and if I can, I imagine every other editor worth his or _her _salt, bloody feminists, can smell it on her, too.”__

____

____

Ben nods, but he’s sure he looks confused. Where does he –

“-- That’s where you come in, Ben. Since you’re more or less unknown in the _biz _as it were, I want you to go undercover. Get close to her. Get her to give up the goods, something hot, something real.” Ben doesn’t miss the smile creeping its way up Snoke’s face, sinister, pulling wrinkled skin taut.__

____

____

“You want me to _lie? _”__

____

____

“No, you _moron _, I want you to investigate. You didn’t put yourself through all that schooling to sit behind that desk for the rest of your life, did you? Because if you did, I’m sure I can find someone else to cover _her, _” Snoke’s hand reaches for the file, but Bens much larger one slaps down first, bringing the file closer. This was his big shot, he wasn’t giving it up, morals be damned.____

_____ _

_____ _

“There’s a good lad,” a single nod from Snoke, rising, Ben pivoting to watch him walk around the desk, neck straining. “She’s playing in some shithole downtown tonight. I want you to go. Try to look less,” he simply gestures to Ben’s form. He understands immediately.

“Thank you, Snoke,” he says, rising, holding the file to his chest, practically stumbling at the chance to prove himself. To be important. To be worth something. “I won’t let you down.”

“Just get out before I change my mind.”

* * *

Snoke was right, the place was a shithole.

Seedy and packed tight, he was the oldest person there by a longshot, pushing thirty, and sorely underdressed (overdressed?) for the occasion. He chose to sport a flannel, blue and black, over a black t-shirt, with the only pair of black jeans he had clean. His hair was tousled, he was trying to go for the dishevelled, sexy look, but he was pretty sure he just looked tired. 

And he was, tired, so fucking tired all of the time. Of his life, of his job, of his writing, but at the moment, tired of the stupid opening act. They were fine, sure, singing bad covers of Nirvana songs, and he could tell that the crowd was growing restless waiting for her.

Ben could feel the room fill with electricity, thrumming with heat and intensity, as the lights went down. The crowd could feel it too, evidenced by the few sparse screams heard from around the room.

The lights come up, blue and magnificent, and they cover the stage in the haze. Ben did his research before he came, Snoke made sure of it as he left the office for the day, so he could make out the three other figures on stage. Left of centre was Kaydel, guitar. Right of center was Rose, bass, and in the back was Jannah, drums. Their thing was punk covers of pop songs, they hadn’t released anything of their own yet, but he didn’t mind. He was sure nobody here did, either. 

As they tuned their instruments, got set up, the anticipation was only growing. In himself and in the audience, the other girls were nice, he was sure they were talented, but Ben, well, Ben wanted _her. _He couldn’t place it, he had been attracted to women before, sure, but it was never like this. She was like, it was – the only feeling comparable was what those teenagers probably felt when they saw *NSYNC for the first time. Or when the dead see God.__

____

____

It begins with the steading thumping of the drums, then the bass, then the guitar roars to life, and she appears from the smoky haze. Rey Johnson, lead singer and frontman of The Nobodies, the rising princess of pop-punk, was standing there, eyes wide and glimmering, fishnets ripped and practically calling to him. Calling him to stick his fingers in between the tears, rip them further, but he pushes that thought to the back of his head, far back -- this was work.

She starts with “Just Dance” by Lady Gaga. Her body jumps around the stage, making use of every inch, turning and grinding against Kaydel and Rose, getting a kick out of them trying to focus on their instruments with her so close. Rey commands the crowd to jump at the chorus, a sea of much smaller people swaying this way and that to her instruction, her hands, her voice, instructing with no resistance whatsoever. When the song is done, her hands wipe hair away from her face, laughing into the mic a little, before she speaks.

“How we _fucking _feeling LA?!” The crowd loses its shit at that, hooting and hollering, screaming her praises.__

____

____

“It’s been a hell of a week guys, I won’t lie. _I _made it, well, no, _we, _made it,”____

_____ _

_____ _

“No, Rey, just _you, _” Jannah quips from behind her drumkit, giving a few taps to let the audience know that the girls were just joking around.__

____

____

“I made it onto the cover of a pretty popular magazine this week. Did anyone read it?” The applause is fierce and overwhelming, and for a moment, Ben can’t help but imagine a group of people like this reading his words. Rey reading his words.

“Called me the ‘rising princess of pop-punk’ I believe it was. Me, guys, a princess.” She does a little twirl for emphasis, before her hands grip the mic stand again. “But guys, I’m not sure if I am. I don’t think princesses party like I do, like we’re about to, LA.” The audience roars back to life, and Ben finds his own hands coming into clumsy applause, like he fears through a crowd this large, this dense, she’d see him. She’d sense that something was off.

“So, party we shall.” And they do, for a long while, they do. She keeps the crowd lively with old Top 40 and personal anecdotes, but the last song is what takes Ben’s breath away. It’s “Bad Romance”, and Rey is really selling it. He watches her form, delicate and beautiful, on her knees, a single hand on the stage, her head rolling around, enticing the crowd through the song, inviting them to imagine what else she could do in that position, inviting herself deep into their consciousness, holding them hostage. She is jail and warden.

In the height of the song, as the bridge begins to rise, her head drops, eyes making direct contact with his.

_I want your love _  
_And I want your revenge _  
_You and me, could write a bad romance. _  
_I want your love, and all your lover’s revenge, _  
_You and me, could write a bad romance._________

_____ _

_____ _

__Her had extends to the audience, but he swears, in that moment, in this moment he wishes he could live inside forever, the hand was for him, just for him, and he felt the worst kind of envy that anyone else thought it was for them. Rey basically screams out the next note, belting to high heavens, head thrown back and free hand extended to the side, her bandmates meeting her intensity as they play, a mess of hair and sweat and talent, dripping from every pore._ _

__“We are The Nobodies,” they shout, “now go out and be somebody!” a final beat, and then blackness._ _

__“Holy fuck,” _Ben whispers to himself. _Holy fuck_ indeed.__ _

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading -- [follow me on twitter!](https://twitter.com/feralsandgoblin)


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